Thickly painted slats of wood in cast iron curls; sturdy and ready to welcome a gentle conveyor belt of humans.
Who was here just before, you'll likely never know or meet, and neither will you notice those who take your place once you leave.
The views we all gaze upon from that spot are the same. Yet everyone will see something different.
With a telescope glued to one eye, I clocked a lady sat on a bench looking out to sea last week. She stayed for hours. One of the huge container ships in her eyeline had smoke billowing from its chimney — I began to wonder what she knew that we didn't...
...and, whether the telescope was secretly a kaleidoscope.
There are two benches currently cordoned off on my walk into town, including one which has been marvellously purpose-built on the corner of a road. Huge stones and slabs laid in an arc, with a great hunk of rock as some, wildly unnecessary, neolithic attempt at a coffee table in front.
Each time I see it, I snort, thinking: why would anyone want to look at that block of flats?
Then... Yeah. You got there before me.
I (only now) realised the block of flats was, obviously, built after the bench. Without the high stacks of bricks, concrete and balconies, there would have been an unrivalled view of sea, trails, sky, forest, and horizon.
Silly old industry — housing people and letting this bench become a laughing stock.
Encased in ticker tape, angled all funny from cement turning to dust, it will simply decay. “Protected” though, by its cones and orange and white stripes.
It's strange when you reach an age where you can tell stories of how “things” used to be “back in the day”, like buildings and shops and plots.
I'm old enough now to have seen plenty of benches disappear with the tumbling cliffs. The edge of a town shifted inward, and the bench never replaced.
*
Benches, too, can be rather territorial. Not that public land can be claimed by any one person, but people have their spots. And you would be wise to leave them to their spots. It feels like sitting where they do, you might knock something off from that distant circuit board into the swirling space plasma, or make God sneeze, you know?
We have lived directly opposite a bench for the past three years. Those sitting on it give the impression they are are boring laser beams through our walls straight into the kitchen. Often, we – me and the Sitter – will lock eyes and I wonder if we are seeing each other, or if the sun's glare means I'm the invisible voyeur.
The regulars of the bench include MethMan. He has a route much like the local bus, with stops every half-road or so. His schedule, however, isn't as reliable. We will see him up to three times a day... and then no sightings for weeks.
And there's SwimGuy. He is in his twenties and always arrives before nine in the morning. Some days he'll bring a friend to spar with – gloves and pads on – before plunging into the cold.
I also saw a couple kiss there one Saturday morning. Everything about the day was unremarkable – not warm, not blue, not breezy – including both of them, in their jeans and black jackets and white trainers. But their kiss began and never stopped. They would twist and giggle, backbending and swapping places. It had the energy of a recent divorce. Maybe – mercifully – news of remission. Or some long, overdue reunion.
They left without me noticing.
*
Not far from here, there's a charity that takes in unloved and abandoned donkeys. It's gorgeous. They all trot around fields and shove snouts through fence gaps for a good scratch. Make sure to avert your eyes in the Spring, though... 🍆 Or, actually, sometimes it might just be a very happy Thursday… 🍆🍆
Reliant upon donations, the donkeys are suitably adorable to make you visit the cafe or shop – at the very least – in support of the site and their ongoing care. Some people, however, leave gifts in their will (maybe ‘requests’ is a better description) and have benches installed around the place with plaques in dedication to their long-held love of asses.
:)
At some point though, there seemed to be more benches accepted than needed. And now, along certain paths, there are rows of seats facing into corrugated barn walls just to appease these donkey admirers that have since... expired.
But, who doesn't appreciate a good bench, I guess.
*
I saw a man steal a bag from the bench opposite ours one morning.
Before I went to bed, I noticed it was still stranded. People had left it alone the whole evening, and I debated taking it to the police station the next day — if the owner hadn't already come back by then.
😇
But morning came, and so did this thief.
Walking and taking in the sunrise; unassuming, in his sixties, wearing an outfit of a retired academic: mustard corduroy trousers and a plaid shirt.
It all unfurled so delicately, this tiny crime. He arrived with empty arms, and left with a new bag to explain.
Imagine if these happenings, all these secrets, soaked into benches like stories into paper.
When they buckle after years, it's because they're too full of whatever we've submitted them to: kisses, theft, peace, loneliness. Not, in fact, the wear of heavy, tired thighs and stomping toddlers.
*
Everything considered, I probably shouldn't spend so much time people watching. Especially watching people mostly sitting. But it's a lovely thing to see: rest in action.
Let them sit awhile, and let the sun break through.
This is a good spot.
